


the blame is mine (it always lingers)

by mischief7manager



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Guilt, Psychological Trauma, somebody just talk to cassandra about her issues please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:26:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9611393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischief7manager/pseuds/mischief7manager
Summary: "Grog’s made no secret of not trusting the Lady Cassandra.Which turned out to be the right call, didn’t it, since she turned right around on them the second they got fucked with the acid trap. And she fought with the Briarwoods, against her brother and the rest, down in the ziggy-whatsits, and, well.Grog’s not exactly one to talk when it comes to fighting family, he knows, but there’s family, and there’s family. And he knows which one he’d fight against, and which one he’d fight for."Cassandra's got some issues. So does Grog. Maybe they should talk.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 2 of Critical Role Relationship Week on tumblr. Set at some ambiguous point post-Conclave. Title from "World Coming Down" by Type O Negative, which Matt used for Cassandra's song on his last character playlist.

Grog’s made no secret of not trusting the Lady Cassandra.

Which turned out to be the right call, didn’t it, since she turned right around on them the second they got fucked with the acid trap. And she fought with the Briarwoods, _against_ her brother and the rest, down in the ziggy-whatsits, and, well.

Grog’s not exactly one to talk when it comes to fighting family, he knows, but there’s family, and there’s _family_. And he knows which one he’d fight against, and which one he’d fight for.

So he keeps an eye on the Lady Cassandra. Nothing personal, mind, just making sure there’s no funny business. And after a while, there doesn’t seem to be any. Whatever the Briarwoods did that fucked her in the head so badly, it seems like she’s put it aside to help them deal with dragons and all. Least she can do after everything, he figures, but he ain’t gonna complain.

Still, with the dragons dead, everybody’s calmed down a bit, trying to figure out what to do next, so he’s not been looking out for the Lady like he was. Not trusting her, but not as worried about what she might do.

Course, that’s when he finds her wandering the castle in the middle of the night.

Alright, “wandering” might not be the best word. Really, she’s only in one room, and the only reason he notices is ‘cause he woke up feeling peckish and was trying to find the kitchen and got turned around. Who needs this many rooms in one place, honestly? He hears noises coming from one of the hallways and he figures, since he’s up, might as well check it out.

It’s the Lady Cassandra, in one of those rooms that doesn’t really have a purpose except to look pretty when people sit in it to talk. She’s in her night-things, all silk and fur lining, what look more like curtains than clothes for sleeping in. Have to, he figures, since it’s so bloody cold in the nights here. And that’s a thing, because the nights are _bloody cold_ , but here’s the lady of the castle, her feet bare, her hair unbound, in an empty room, with a short sword in her hand.

She’s running drills, he realizes as he watches. Grog never got much formal weapons training, Kevdak not being much of the teacher sort, but he knows it when he sees it. Somebody taught Cassandra how to use a blade, the forms and motions you have to repeat over and over, until your body can do them without your brain even thinking it. She’s good. She knows what she’s doing, at least, but her stances are off, and when she pivots to slice again at the air he sees there’s tears coursing down her cheeks.

“Um.” Grog says.

Cassandra whirls, blade pointing square at him where he stands in the doorway.

“Hi.” Grog says.

Cassandra doesn’t lower the blade. “What do you want?” The tip of the sword shakes in the air in front of him.

Grog holds his hands up, palms out, his usual way of saying “I know I’m a scary-looking fucker but I promise I’m not holding any weapons to kill you with.” Not that he needs weapons to kill someone. Anyway. “I was just passing by, heard some noise. Thought somebody might need some help.”

The sword drops to her side. “How magnanimous of you.” Grog decides now’s not the time to ask what that means. “I’m fine. You may go.” She turns and lifts the sword again, starting the last set of stances over.

Grog does mean to leave her be, honest, but. Being around Pike for so long, he’s kind of picked up a few things, and leaving her alone, in the middle of the night, crying and holding a pointy weapon just doesn’t strike him as the right thing to do.

“You alright?” he asks.

She laughs. It’s like how Percy laughs sometimes, and it’s not a happy laugh at all. “Of course,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Grog frowns. “Is that a trick question?”

He means it. He only asked the first time to be polite, ‘cause it’s pretty obvious she’s in a bad way at the moment. When a person can’t even hold a blade proper, that’s not a good sign.

Cassandra sighs and the blade falls to her side. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

He takes a cautious step into the room. “What wasn’t?”

She shakes her head. “Any of it. I was never supposed to be the one in charge, I was never supposed to _rule_. Whitestone was never supposed to become some sort of last beacon of hope to a crumbling world, and _Percival_ -” She cuts herself off and takes a deep breath. “Percival was never supposed to leave.”

She sounds so small when she says that. She’s a human, a larger-sized one too, tall and all angles, just like Percy, but when she says that…

She sounds like a kid. Like Pike did, when they were little and she had bad dreams and woke up in the middle of the night. When that happened, Grog always took her to Wilhand, ‘cause Wilhand knew what to say to make it better, but there’s nobody around except him and Cassandra now.

“‘m sorry,” he says, ‘cause that’s usually a good place to start.

Cassandra lets the sword clatter to the floor and takes a seat in one of the cushy armchairs. “What on earth for?”

Grog moves a little closer, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Sorry things are so shit for you, I guess,” he says. “And sorry about trying to kill you that one time, that can’t’ve helped.”

She waves a hand. “It’s fine,” she says. “Not like I didn’t deserve it.”

That makes him frown, and he finally moves to sit opposite her. He sits on the floor, since he can’t tell if any of these fancy chairs will hold his weight, but he’s still pretty much at eye level with her. “What’d’you mean?”

She looks at him, one eyebrow raised. “I’d betrayed you all and I was helping the people you’d been sent to defeat. In your place, I’d have tried to kill me, too.”

“That wasn’t your fault, though.”

Her other eyebrow raises. “You certainly seemed to think so.”

“Yeah, but-” He frowns harder, trying to pick the right words so she’ll understand him. “I didn’t get it, then.”

“Didn’t get what?”

“What it’s like.” Grog folds his hands in front of him, sitting up straighter, like Pike taught him. “I think I understand now.”

Cassandra scoffs. “You do?”

“Yeah, I do.” He doesn’t mean to sound pissed, but he must a little bit, because she stops making that “yeah, whatever you say” face (Percy makes the same exact face, it’s a little creepy) and actually looks at him. “When you’ve got somebody mucking about in your head, telling you what to think and how to act… If you listen long enough, you forget what’s real and what isn’t.” He looks down, starts picking at a loose thread in the rug underneath him. “Even if you start out wanting to do the right thing, it gets all… twisted up, until you’re trusting somebody who’s just trying to use you over… over…”

“Over your own family.” She’s not looking at him when she says it. He thinks she must be thinking about something real hard, though, ‘cause she’s got this faraway look on her face.

He nods. “Yeah. But-” He reaches out, slow, and lays a hand on her knee where it sticks out over the chair. She’s got her feet tucked up under her, and she startles a bit when he touches her. He makes sure she’s looking at him when he says the next bit. “It’s not your fault, yeah? Whatever you did on account of the Briarwoods, that’s ‘cause of what they did to your head. It’s not ‘cause of you.”

Cassandra sighs. “It’s sweet that you think so.”

He grins. “Yeah, I didn’t believe it, either, when they told me.” She laughs a little at that, and he’s glad. She still looks like a kid when she laughs, but in a good way. Like she’s a kid the way she’s supposed to be. “You’re pretty good with that,” he says, nodding towards the sword she dropped.

She sighs. “I’m trying. It’s been so long, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten everything I’ve ever learned.”

Grog stands up, offers her a hand. “Want me to show you?” When she hesitates, he shrugs. “Short sword’s not really my style, but hey. How hard can it be?”

She takes her hand and pulls herself up. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says, and picks the sword up. She twirls it a couple of times, the blade not wavering at all now. “Care to find out?” She steps smoothly into a defensive stance, blade leveled at him.

Grog grins. “Alright, little Lady,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s see what you got.”

**Author's Note:**

> LET! MY! GIRL! BE! HAPPY!
> 
> Friendly reminder that if you like what I do here, and you support anything that would make the sitting president of the United States angry, you can donate to a charity of your choice and commission a fic of your prompting from me. More details on [my tumblr](http://mischief7manager.tumblr.com/post/156547309777/i-dont-have-much-money-and-i-dont-usually-have).


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